The Still (16 page)

“As vassal, or friend?”

“Vassal. Friend. Both.” I wanted to hurl the chair at him, or Uncle, or the window. “Friend. Please.”

“Wash your face.”

I did as bidden, too shaken to protest. After, he pulled up a second chair, sat close, arms folded over his knees. “If fear clouds your judgment and loosens your tongue, we must know it. Tell me True, Roddy. Are you afraid?”

So much he asked of me, I thought I could not give. We of the House of Caledon could have no friend, no confidant. But I was desperate beyond any need I had ever known.

To the floor, I mumbled, “Every waking minute of each day since Mother died.” I shifted under the shame of my confession. “It isn’t seemly, for one of royal blood.”

“Perhaps.” He walked behind my chair, enveloped my shoulders in his strong arms. “Yet I hardly blame you.”

“I’m so alone.” The words came of their own volition.

“Then I will be with you, my prince, and we’ll face fear together.” His hug was like Father’s, of dim memory.

“Rust, take me from this place!” The cry of a supplicant.

His hands tightened on my shoulder blades. “As I live, Rodrigo. Tonight.”

C
ASUALLY, RUST BID ME
farewell, mounted Santree, his favorite bay, and trotted through the main gate with a friendly wave to the guard, while I peered down from my window high above. In his saddlebags was enough of my clothing for several days change.

Uncle Mar had no need to monitor the traffic in goods to and from the castle. His concern was that Elryc or I should escape his control, or some unknown enemy enter. To that end, he’d doubled the guard, but Rust was as well known as the alemaster whose cart was mired in the still-soggy courtyard, where sweating helpers rolled barrels round to the servitors’ entrance.

Scarce two hours later, Rust was back, and passed through the guards’ scrutiny at the gate without incident. Shortly after, he was in my room. “Done.”

“You’re sure you—”

“Everything.” He glanced at the walls, put a finger to his lips. “Think you the night will be cloudy?” A full moon would inhibit a climb down a rope from the battlements.

“Who knows.” I couldn’t abide the wait until dark.

Somehow, in our planning, it had become clear that my absence might be a protracted one. Uncle’s attitude toward princes and crown became ever more proprietary, and his physical custody of me, as opposed to the formality of a regency, was intolerable. Still, I hesitated at casting myself adrift. Events would tell.

I paced anew. When Rustin settled himself at dice, it was too much. “Let’s walk outside.” In good humor, he followed. “Sleep on, Fostrow. No need to stalk us.” The yawning guard struggled to his feet, assembled his gear.

Outside, all was as to be expected, except for the manned battlements. During my whole lifetime, and before, Mother had ruled with her foes subdued and no need to cower behind armed ramparts.

We sauntered along the walls, Fostrow bringing up the rear. As I’d feared, the only wall low enough to lower myself down was rife with soldiers from Verein. Our household troop would hesitate before firing on me; these louts of the Duke would skewer me with an arrow with nary a thought.

I hummed, barely loud enough for Rust to hear. “It looks a bit awkward.”

“Perhaps.” Rustin guided me down the stairs. “Let’s sit outside the kitchen.” We traipsed around the side of the keep, along the foundation wall. I glanced back at Fostrow, increased my pace, trying to make him sweat.

Cook gave us meat and bread, shooed us out into the damp afternoon. I settled on an overturned barrel, took a bite. Rustin let me ruminate in peace. Fostrow made a few stabs at conversation, but I ignored him with lofty condescension until he lapsed silent.

A stir, in the kitchen. Voices raised, men running about. A squad of soldiers left off their raillery with the washer-maids, loped around the corner of the keep. I looked inside. “Cook, did someone piss in the stew?”

The rotund woman wiped her face on an apron. “They’re coming! Lord of Nature!” Leaving me gaping, she rushed away.

I spotted Kerwyn, the groom. “What’s afoot?”

“The trumpets gave alarm.” His voice was uneasy. “The guards are gone to the ramparts.”

Fostrow’s rough hand grasped my arm. “To your chambers, this very moment, or I’ll bind and carry you! Move!” He shoved me along. “The Duke would have the hide off me, if anything happened to—where do you think you’re going?”

“Let’s have a look. Come on!” My pace was barely short of a run.

Perhaps it was because I was young, and could move faster. Or perhaps the old soldier’s itch to know was as great as mine. Fostrow hurried after, without protest. Rust loped past him to stride with me.

I led them around the foundation wall of the keep, past the stables, to the main gate and the west ramparts.

In the courtyard, red-faced brewer’s men struggled to free their cart from the muck. Empty return barrels, ill-tied, rolled in the wagon bed. Men and boys dashed about. I spotted Genard, leading a horse to gatekeeper Lanford. The battlements were a frenzy of activity.

The gates were open. A stream of folk were making their way up the hill from town. Townsmen trickled into the courtyard, bearing what supplies they could carry, while above on the ramparts, troops passed rocks from hand to hand to augment stacks, arranged kindling in the firepits under the cauldrons, rolled barrels of oil.

Rustin gave way to a soldier with an armful of pikes.

I raced up the steps, peered over the rampart into the setting sun.

“What is it, Roddy?”

Dozens of black sails were silhouetted against the sun-flecked water. A chill stabbed at my spine. “Tantroth’s fleet is athwart the bay!”

Fostrow’s face puckered with dismay. “Tantroth of Eiber? We’re in for a siege now, let me tell you.”

Slowly, inexorably, the laden ships glided on the gentle breeze, toward the beach south of the docks, far from Llewelyn’s keep.

“You’ve seen, my lord. Now, to your chambers!” Fostrow, with a firm grip on my upper arm, hauled me to the steps. “Young Rustin, go home; your father will have need—”

“I stay with my prince.”

“Then you’ll stay in his rooms for the duration. It’s a lock and bolt I’ll warrant Margenthar will want for the guarding. Hurry, laddie.” With a flick of my dagger I could have sliced the tendons of his wrist and left him screaming in helpless rage, but this was not the time or the place.

I let Fostrow lead me into the castle and deposit us in my rooms. The moment the door was shut I ran to the window, peered past the walls to the warming harbor below.

“What now, Rust? Quick, before Uncle Mar locks us in!”

He said, “Confusion reigns, and will for hours. How can we dispose of Fostrow?” I pulled my dagger; Rust looked shocked. “Imps and demons, Roddy. I didn’t mean it literally.”

A few moments later he looked out the door. “Fostrow, help us with the trunk, would you? Roddy’s leather jerkin and shield are inside, and the hasp’s stuck.” Rust strode to the trunk room.

Fostrow bent over the trunk, grumbling. “What need have you of shields? You’re well guarded, and high in—”

I emerged from behind the cupboard, clubbed him with my upraised chair. With a cry, he sank to his knees.

Rust kicked shut the door, threw himself onto the fallen guard. “His blade!” With effort, he held the man’s hand clear long enough for me to snatch the sword from its sheath.

“The dagger also.”

“I know.” I clawed for the blade, tossed it across the room out of reach.

Fostrow arched his back, threw Rustin half off. He took breath, let out a shout. Rust elbowed him in the stomach; Fostrow oofed silent. I swarmed onto the guard’s back, helped Rust subdue him.

With belt ropes and curtain ties, we soon had Fostrow bound. I asked, “What about a gag?”

“Use a shirt.”

I grabbed one from the floor.

“Not an unwashed one; you’ll smother him!” I glared, but Rust paid no heed. He peered at the soldier’s scalp. “Water, and a cloth.”

“Are you serious? He’s our enemy!”

“Water!” Rust’s tone was peremptory. Sighing, I brought it; he dabbed at Fostrow’s forehead. “The Duke is our enemy, my prince. This man is a guard, doing his duty.”

“Which is to gaol me.”

“His duty.” Rust finished his ministrations.

Fostrow chewed at the gag. His voice was muffled, but distinct. “Let me go. Mnpff. What are you boys about? There’s no place for you to hide.” He tried to twist free of his ropes. “The castle’s secure, Prince; we’re all trapped together. Untie me and I’ll say nothing of—”

“Some gag.” I joined Rust in dragging the protesting guardsman across the tiles.

“Into the wardrobe.”

I helped him bundle Fostrow into the closet. “We can’t leave him alive. Listen to his caterwauling! If you tied his knots like you stuffed his mouth, he’ll be free in minutes.”

“They’ll hold long enough. Or would you slit his throat?”

Fostrow was abruptly still.

“Where’s my dagger?” I looked about, found it on my belt, its accustomed place. A tug, and it was unsheathed.

Rustin stood aside, his eyes on my face.

I brought the dagger to my gaoler’s throat. Fostrow whinnied. “Lord of Nature, laddie! What did I do that—”

“Shut thy mouth.” I took a deep breath, steeled myself for my slash, waited for Rustin’s inevitable objection.

Silence. Very well, then, I’d do it. Yet my arm seemed paralyzed. I looked past Fostrow’s terror, concentrated on the blade.

At last, I sighed, sheathed the knife.

Rustin sagged in relief.

I said sourly, “I stopped only for you, vassal. You’d have nagged and badgered until—”

His hand flew to my lips. “Shh. I feared for you, but you passed the ordeal.” Without waiting for answer he strode to my door, opened, peered both ways. “Hurry.”

“Sometimes I can’t begin to figure you. Where to?”

“Below.” We raced down the stairs.

Just above the landing, I caught Rust’s arm. “What if Uncle sees us?”

“He’ll be directing our defenses, not pacing the hall.” Nonetheless, Rust peeked over the rail. I joined him. In the entry, sentries stood watch, with greater vigilance than usual. We tiptoed back upstairs.

“Now what?” Dazed by the press of events, I was content to let him lead.

For a long moment, he thought. Then, “Roddy, what welcome, when you return?”

We’d planned on my jumping the wall and making a brief journey to Hester’s cottage. Instead, we’d clubbed and bound a guard. Uncle’s wrath would be formidable. I’d be lucky to be sent to the Chamberlain; more likely, I’d be cast into a cell.

My eyes were bleak. “Shall I never come home?”

Staring at the rush-covered flooring, he shrugged. Then, his gaze met mine. “As King.”

I swallowed. “I’ll need the Still.”

“The vault? There’s no way to ...”

“The castle is in an uproar. If ever we could, now.” I felt a tingle of fear, and with it, welcome excitement. I would risk all, on a throw of the dice. “We’ll need to break the lock.”

“What you need is Willem’s key.”

“I don’t dare be seen in the Chamberlain’s wing. Everyone knows by now I’m supposed to be guarded.” I felt an unaccountable exultation. I commanded, and Rustin but followed. “Mother’s key opens one lock. All we must force is the second.”

“A spear, perhaps? But the guards ...”

“The armory is nearby. We’ll manage one, somehow. For the guards, a distraction.”

He paused. “Tell them we’re under siege?”

“Yes! No, too unlikely. They’ll know Tantroth can’t have landed yet.” I took a deep breath. “Fire.”

“Roddy!”

My expression was grim; I knew, well as he, that fire was the bane of every stronghold. Woven floor covers, timber supports, and cotton and damask curtains would burn like pitch. Worse, the keep was full of vents and cubbyholes; it would draw like a chimney. If our blaze got out of hand, we’d destroy Castle Stryx.

On the other hand, the vault was at the end of a long corridor with no other exit save the passage we’d use. The guards would realize that if they remained at their posts they’d be roasted like autumn chestnuts. Fire was our best, if not our only way to get to the strongroom.

“We’ll make smoke, so it looks like a bigger fire than it is. A barrel.” My mind cast about. “One from the winery. A wet blanket, soaked in oil.”

“Where?”

“The kitchen. Run.” My speed was urgent, lest my courage falter. I ran headlong into the kitchen, bustling to provide food to our defenders. “Cooking oil! Where do you keep it?”

Cook gaped. “What are you—”

“Quick, tell me!”

“The scullery.”

I dashed past the tables where Genard sat lapping a bowl of stew, ran out onto the grounds, made for the scullery. A kitchenmaid loomed in the doorway. I thrust her aside, looked about for a bowl, such as Cook used.

“Not there; it’d be in a cask. Aha!” Rust seized one, wrenched out the cork, sniffed. “Fresh-pressed olives.”

“That’s plenty. Can you carry it?” The cask was but a tenthweight of a barrel. I grabbed the biggest jug I could find, filled it with water from the barrel by the door.

“Roddy, are you sure you’d risk burning—”

“For the Still itself? Do you jest?” I trotted back to the kitchen, leaving Rustin to shoulder the cask.

Beyond the kitchen, steps to the cellars. I seized a doused torch from its place on the wall, lit it from a taper in a niche. I glanced behind, waited impatiently for Rust to catch up.

The tunnel to the winery was deserted, the winery’s gate securely locked. Outside, empty wine barrels waited to be cleaned. I stood atop one, smashed at it with my boot until the lid splintered.

“What do you here?” A harsh voice echoed.

I whirled. Stire, the Duke’s man, in full battle gear. His half-sword was drawn.

Rust giggled, swayed. “It’s hard to get the dregs, m’lord.” He gestured. “Have to open the barrel; it’s too heavy to tip and suck at the bung.” He staggered toward me, recoiled as if I’d pushed him away. “P’haps you can help us with the nexsht?”

“You’re drunk, lout?” Stire’s lip curled.

My voice came in a squeak, not from mummery, but real fear. “He is not!” I stumbled, in Stire’s direction. “No more’n I. We came down to—”